To Bear Witness
by 2Old4This2
Summary: Tag to 'Parting Shots' and previews for the next new episode, so yes, there are spoilers. Neal has been dealt yet another devastating loss. How does he deal with it? Yes, this story is shamelessly angst-y, but really, how could you not feel sorry for the guy? Also, please read the author's note first!


Author's Note **Read Me First!:** _I started this story on Saturday, intending to publish it Tuesday to make up for the fact that there is no new _White Collar _episode. Early Tuesday afternoon, before I finished the darn thing, I started reading the story by 'Sara Caffrey.' I was only a few paragraphs in when I realized there were a number of similarities between my story and hers. I stopped reading and contacted her to let her know my story and hers were similar, at least in the beginning. I told her I still wanted to publish my story and she graciously said I should go ahead. So here it is. Obviously, great minds think alike. Now I can go ahead and read her story!_

**To Bear Witness**

A _White Collar_ Fan Fiction

_**Disclaimer: **_White Collar _is the property of Jeff Eastin and the USA Network. This story is solely for entertainment purposes. No copyright infringement is intended and absolutely no profit is being made._

"Trust Sam." Ellen might as well have said "Rosebud" for all that her advice meant!

Neal unconsciously rubbed the scar on his leg, still red and new, courtesy of OFA Agent Collins. Mozzie had welcomed Neal to the club – with not so exclusive membership – of people who'd been shot. Ellen had belonged to that club also, if only for a far too brief a period of time.

The view of Manhattan's skyline from his apartment was as beautiful as ever. The tall buildings took on a golden glow with the sunset; the first lights that bloomed in their windows twinkling like jewels. Normally, Neal loved the scene from the terrace, but this evening he felt trapped – positively walled in. He turned away from the walls, both figurative and literal, and seated himself at the small outdoor table. He rested his chin on his hand, a melancholy shadow of Rodin's _The Thinker._

Trust Sam! Who was Sam? Just as important, where was Sam? St. Louis? Or the town Neal didn't remember – the one where he was born and his father did . . .? Did what? Where his father did or did not kill a fellow police officer. Of course, it didn't really matter where the mysterious Sam was, because unless he was within his anklet's two mile radius, Neal wasn't going to be seeing him anytime soon.

Neal jumped up from the table with an indecipherable sound of frustration. The chair skittered back, screeching on the slate tile floor. Running his hand through his hair, he paced the length of the terrace before ending up leaning against the wall again. A comma of dark curl fell across his forehead.

What was he going to do now? He'd always known Ellen was there. Even when he was at the top of his game, traveling the world stealing and conning, he knew she was there – somewhere. All he had to do was page her. That option wasn't available anymore. He wondered if prayer would reach her, now. He doubted it; right now he was feeling a little like Job. Neal laughed hollowly – unlike Job, he wasn't exactly the righteous man, now was he?

Night had fallen. He shivered in the darkness, not from cold – but from aloneness. For as far back as he could remember, even though his mom was there, it was Ellen who raised him. She'd had to deal with quite a bit. St. Louis hadn't been a bad town, but Danny Brooks wasn't exactly the perfect child. Lying, petty theft, breaking and entering, forgery, pool sharking – these were skills Danny developed to make his suddenly altered childhood livable. Well, except for the pool sharking, that was just for fun!

A smile crept slowly across his tired features, both shamefaced and proud. Ellen had been so mad at him! She found him in the pool hall; nine years old and barely tall enough to lean over his shots, busily fleecing the adult patrons of their hard earned pay. It was especially fun since all he had to do was flash his smile and look at them with his big, innocent blue eyes, and they couldn't wait to give him a try. He'd collected quite a bit of money before Ellen found him. She stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing. "Danny!" she called out, trying to get his attention. "Danny!"

"Neal? Neal!"

His head flew around. June stood just inside his apartment, Peter Burke close behind her. Neal's smile was pleasant, bland and fake as he walked to the French doors.

"Hey, June."

June came closer, concern filling her eyes. "I hope I'm not intruding, Neal, dear," she said, her silk jacket whispering as she moved towards him. "I knocked, but I guess you couldn't hear me. Peter wanted a word with you."

"I'm sorry, June. Of course you're not intruding. I guess I was just lost in thought."

"I understand, dear. If you need anything . . ." June left the rest unsaid, merely placing her hand gently on his cheek before she turned to go.

Peter stood still, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Neal said nothing, merely staring at his friend with eyes devoid of emotion. Nervous, Peter shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. It was the same suit he'd worn to the funeral earlier that day, Neal noticed. He had changed from his own suit as quickly as he could, as if somehow removing the clothes could remove the pain.

"Peter?" Neal asked expectantly.

"Are you okay?" Peter knew it was a stupid question. One look around the room told him the answer: the untouched glass of wine on the kitchen table, the suit, shirt and tie tossed carelessly on the bed, the painful emptiness on his friend's face – Neal was definitely not okay.

"I'm fine," Neal lied. "If that was all you wanted, you could have just called," he continued, deliberately rude.

"I tried. You're not answering your phone."

"That's because I turned it off," Neal explained.

"I rest my case," Peter said with a small smile.

"Peter, I don't want to talk right now. Thanks for your concern," Neal turned half away from his friend. " but I just want to be alone."

"Well, that's where I think you're wrong."

Neal wheeled around to face the other man; his eyes were blazing now. "Don't suppose for one minute you have any idea how I feel," he said hotly. "Or how I should feel!"

"Neal . . ." Peter began, taking a tentative step forward. Neal swung his arm out wildly in rage. He missed the wine glass he was aiming at, instead half upending the chessboard residing at the end of the table. Pieces rolled off the table and clattered noisily on the floor. Neal turned his head away and ran his hands through his hair. His chest heaved with the strength of his emotions.

"No … don't!" Neal tried to shrug Peter's hand off his shoulder, but Peter wouldn't budge. The two men stood in silence until Neal's breathing calmed. When he finally turned to his friend, his face was desolate.

"It feels – " Neal began, then he faltered, unable to find the right words. "Picture," he began again, "picture losing your mother, suddenly and violently." He shut his eyes. "Or Elizabeth."

Peter's heart ached. "I can't know what you're feeling," he said. "I don't want to ever know. But you can't – ."

Neal walked back out onto the terrace, to lean against the wall yet again. "I can't do anything," he said disconsolately. "She watched over me for all those years, and . . . what can I do?" He jerked up his pants leg to glare at his tracker. "I can't do anything," he said again softly.

"We'll find out who did this, Neal," Peter said, standing at his friend's side, looking at the jeweled panorama in front of them.

"How?" Neal asked defeatedly. "How? The Marshal's couldn't protect her. WitSec couldn't do it. We have no idea who or what Sam is. We don't know who did this to her." His voice rose in desperation. "I have two miles and no clue!"

"You're not alone, Neal," Peter turned to look at him, placing his hand on Neal's shoulder once again. "There's me and Diana and Jones." He paused for breath. "Sara will do what she can, and Mozzie – . You're not alone."

Neal met Peter's eyes, steady and true in the night. Yes, they would all help. His friends. The weight in his chest lifted. Just for that moment, he didn't feel so alone.


End file.
